


Bones Break Easier Than Traditions

by myopicmickey



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Sexist Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14560539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myopicmickey/pseuds/myopicmickey
Summary: A typically boring meeting gets interesting for the Gents when someone doesn't mind their manners.





	Bones Break Easier Than Traditions

The most lasting traditions always get strange starts. Jeremy's tradition of changing his hair after big heists came from his early days of disguising himself because everyone on the East Coast would recognize a Dooley on sight. Swimmy bevs was a Gavin creation that came along one day when the ac had broken down in Geoff's second house.

Sometimes strange starts were more deadly than silly. Geoff's tattoos started to document the important things, important people, after his first big hospital visit. Ryan hitting motorcyclists was born from an attempt to get Gavin to come out of his shell after an unfortunate run in with one of LS's nastier biker gangs.

Most never learn of a tradition that Jack participates in. Luckily few people are stupid enough to meet the requirements for it nowadays.

.

Its a chilly day... for Southern California. Which means jeans and a shirt with real sleeves for once. The chill is more pronounced in the warehouse on the outskirts that the gents find themselves in. The ice in Geoff's heavily lidded eyes seems to be missed by the jerk off sitting in the shitty metal chair before him.

 

"My boys n'me had nothing to do with the little bonfire that happened in your borders, Ramsey," the pasty fuckwad repeats, a sweat building up on his face despite the lovely weather. "We'd make a spectacle out of it, if it were us. You know that."

"No, I don't know that, Price. But I do know something," he replies, holding his right hand out. Knowing the importance of building the tension, Jack takes just a second longer than necessary to pull out the folder from the briefcase that had been set up atop one of the nearby containers. She passes it over to Geoff and resumes lazily staring at Price.

"I know," Geoff continues, flicking the folder open. "That you've been turning an eye to Funhaus activity near your storage. Been too busy jerking each other off to notice all the firepower they've been parking in your front lawn, Price? They're not that sneaky. There's no way you haven't been tripping over them everywhere you turn!"

"What's it to you if I make some peaceful deals? What's a warehouse or two to the knock off Penguin and his whore? I got a right to do business in my territory!"

The silence that fills the echoy warehouse is broken by the sound of steps approaching from behind Price, who only just realizes that the other notable crewmember was most certainly not "keeping guard" outside. He was too eager to get this meeting over with to remember the iron grip Ramsey had over this spit of dirt outside of town.

Price's shoulders are held down by leather cladded hands before he can think to stand. The near silent breaths of the body behind the chair are a dead giveaway that he's now at the mercy of the least merciful man in the city. 

"Wh-what the fuck are ya doing?" he asks, as though there's a chance he'll get an answer from the damn brick wall breathing in his ear.

Geoff breathes a sigh and takes a few steps to the wall of containers. There's a certain bounce to his gait, like he's either happy that the meeting has been brought to an end or he's looking forward to what's about to happen next. His eyes, still lidded and tired as ever, give nothing away as he returns. The bat in his hands, however, answers a few questions.

"We agreed to no weapons! This is a peaceful meeting. Where's your fuckin honor, Ramsey?" He cries, starting to wriggle, an escape attempt that's fruitless at best. The leather hands grip tighter and he knew that he's not getting anywhere until the order is given.

Geoff, slow in his movements in a way that most mistake for laziness or alcohol abuse, delicately holds the bat up for Jack. Like a knight presenting a sword before his leige. It's an old fashioned wooden ordeal, brand new and unblemished light colored wood. For all his mistakes and hangups, Price has enough wit about him to know it won't look half as pretty by the end of this. Neither will he, for that matter.

Jack takes the bat and gives it a few little swings, like she's warming up her wrists for a softball game instead of a little one on one with Price's head. "Which one's your jerk off hand, Price?" Jack asks oh so casually, like he had chosen truth rather than dare at a middle school camping trip. 

"The fuck that's supposed'ta mean?" he asks near incredulously, not expecting the turn this meeting is taking.  
"Your dominant hand, dillhole. Your girlfriend, the one you use to mix a batch."

"The one you use to pass out free literature. Ya know, when you beat one out," Geoff adds in, most likely pulling from a long list of euphanisms he's eager for an excuse to use.

Price pulls a face, understanding what they're asking but the why not really sinking in. "Why the fuck would you need to know? What sort of sick shit are ya playing at, Ramsey?"

Geoff shrugs and gives a small smile, proud of himself and ready to see the next part of this little song and dance. Jack nods her head up in Price's direction, clearly signalling something to the figure behind him. The message seems to come in clear as the hands move down to hold Price's arms against the armrests. There's a leather jacket clad chest against the back of his head and a shadow cast over him that feels like it has a weight of it's own.

"I was giving you an option, but I guess we're going for a combo today," is the only warning Jack gives him before the bat starts swinging. 

Geoff leans against a cargo container and lights a cigarette as screams and the sound of a bat hitting bones fill the chilled air around him. He didn't get a deal out of this meeting, but this works. A warning, an example of what happens when you don't cooperate with the Fakes. And it was always nice to see Ryan bonding with the crew.

Minutes passed, though it felt like hours to Price. Every twitch, every breath, bringing another shock of pain. He's no pussy, but he'd kill to have a low enough pain tolerance to pass out right about now. He didn't even notice when the hands that held him down let go, but they've got him by the back of his collar now and are pulling him up out of the blood sticky chair.

Jack takes a moment to catch her breath before gingerly setting the bat to the side, as though she hadn't been turning a man's hands into a purée just seconds before. She brushes the hair out of her face and the blood that had lightly splattered onto her smeares against her forehead. It might as well be makeup for how it only seems to accentuate her soft eyes and round face.

"Well, Price," she says and pats his face like a gentle elderly aunt. "You'd better learn to respect whores. You're going to be needing them for a while."

.

It only took three guys losing one or both of their hands before the gangs of Los Santos learned the new etiquette rules. Though if alleged rapists and harassers also lose their hands outside of official meetings with the Fakes, well Jack just likes to think that she started a far greater tradition.


End file.
